Musashino vs. Nishiura, bottom of the ninth inning.
Score at 3-2, two out.
Two strikes, two balls, runner on third base.
That's where Haruna was standing five seconds ago, facing the unsettling grin of Nishiura's clean-up batter and the cadence of their cheering team, giving its all for the star player. The spectators who don't belong to either school are rooting for Nishiura, as are a good number of the few Musashino students who chose to skip the soccer game to come here.
Haruna may be used to not getting much in the way of support, but it's a little disheartening. The seduction of the underdog is what it is, compounded by the mystery of how those first years and their female coach have managed to pull themselves this far up on their second tournament.
As far as Haruna can tell it's a mix of sheer tenacity, dumb luck, and the weird spell they cast by staring intently at anyone who happens to be on third base.
And, maybe, if really he has to say it, Takaya's strategy.
Because they ran him out, and three seconds ago Haruna's eightieth pitch was his third ball, just outside of the strike zone. The hitter didn't even twitch. His eyes barely followed the ball, which begs the question of how much training he's put himself through, how many hours spent watching videos, deciphering his every move. This guy in front of him must have seen more of Haruna than of his own family for the past weeks, watched every strikeout and every fastball to find even the slightest hint that others would have missed.
He's teetering over the line of defeat now. And still, for all his focused eyes and firm grip on the bat and perfect stance, still he's smiling.
Maybe, just maybe, so is Haruna, his eyes fixated on the brat even across the distance as the whole stadium holds its breath.
And someone calls a time-out.
It's so sudden it almost makes him jump, but of course they would, wouldn't they? By now no one who keeps track of high school baseball can have missed Haruna's self-imposed limitations. Even back in middle school, none but Takaya ever put them in question. Everyone in the stadium has to know that this is the point when he walks away from the mound. There's still enough energy for a tenth inning, and no one in the circuit is making the mistake of underestimating Mihashi Ren anymore. There's still a chance; he's stood down in worse circumstances.
His eyes wander to the dugout. Takaya smirks when their eyes meet, and turns away like he can't be bothered, like he hasn't begged and yelled and cried for that one pitch Haruna never threw.
Like he's already won.
His new pitcher doesn't look so confident until Takaya puts a hand on his shoulder, makes him turn around, and it's not like Haruna doesn't know it's all calculated to annoy him; but the truth is that everyone is exhausted and Musashino wouldn't take a single hit from Mihashi in a tenth inning.
If Haruna stands down now – as is habit, as is safe, as he should – Nishiura wins.
If he takes the next pitch – as Takaya always wanted him to, as the Tajima brat is waiting for, as is reckless and ridiculous – there's a chance, maybe; and Takaya wins the one-sided match he's been playing for years.
The cheeky brat is still grinning at him, jumping from one foot to the other, bat loosely laid across his shoulders like he's just waiting for the pesky interruption to end. Haruna's fingers grip the ball just that little bit tighter.
Lost for lost, might as well enjoy the fall.